


The Resting Deep

by fightingthecage



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Body Worship, Canon Divergence, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Javert's Confused Boner, M/M, PWP probably, Post Seine - Javert Lives, Scars, touch starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 08:58:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightingthecage/pseuds/fightingthecage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More than a year after Valjean pulled Javert from the Seine, they are entering unknown waters. AKA: Javert has never been touched before, and Valjean barely so. </p><p>(AKA the Second: what was intended as PWP became a little more involved. But not much more so.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
  


The first time, and he is shaking. He wonders if it is evident. Valjean is close enough that surely nothing can be missed, but he cannot move his head to look down at his hands, or examine the tremor in his skin. All he knows is the man’s breath against his neck, and the beat of his own heart, so fast now he can no longer distinguish individual counts of it. He closes his eyes, and tries to focus on the heat of the fire at his back, and the way the logs pop – green wood, he thinks, and concentrates on it to stop himself falling into the man in front. Fingers gentle his cravat open and then there are lips at his throat, and he cannot breathe.

‘Monsieur.’ He tries the word like a foreign taste on his tongue, carefully and a little at a time; he hears a soft chuckle, and attempts to wet his dry mouth. ‘Valjean.’

‘Yes?’ It is a question ghosted along his skin, and he gasps as soft whiskers brush under his chin. Without meaning to, he steadies himself with a hand at the man’s waist; he hears a groan, and thinks his knees may buckle.

‘Don’t know.’ He cannot think. Fear slips up his sides, and circles into his chest. He is so hard. It is very nearly painful. He cannot bear it, but the thought of stepping away is incomprehensible. He is trapped by his own wanton desires; he is disgusted, and ashamed, and could not change it for anything.

‘If you are not – if you do not wish it…’

Valjean’s hand presses to his quietly heaving stomach; he feels it like the lead on a weighing scale through the layers of his patched clothes. His throat closes over, and he cannot swallow past it. He shakes his head. Valjean smiles, rubs a circle, and kisses the thin skin over his racing pulse. It draws a sound from him he has never made before; his cheeks redden with embarrassment, but Valjean just pushes closer, his lips sucking gently, his hand stealing around to the small of his back. Javert clutches his shirt in tight fists, and tries to take his mind from this place.

How did they get here? The answer seems obvious; they are fated perhaps, or it is the hand of God, or simply that they are each the single constant point in the lives of the other. It is more than thirty years since he first laid eyes on the beast that was 24601. But that was not where _this_ started. Not there, and not in Montreuil, where Madeleine was a fine gentleman, ruined only by the doubts of an ever-blind policeman. Not in Paris, where the thief stole into the night, leaving frustration that came very close to hate. Not at the barricade, where he was broken. Not even on the banks of the Seine, a beast’s strength dragging him from the river by the scruff of his neck. No, not there. He had never considered it. But it has been more than a year, Valjean almost died, the girl married, life returned to…no, not to any semblance of normality. It turned to _this_ , and now they stand in Valjean’s apartment, and if he is not very much mistaken, he is about to be taken to bed, where the last shreds of his old self will be gentled out of him until he screams. He may scream now. The man is too close. Everything is too warm. He can tell himself it is logical, this path they have taken, but there is nothing logical about the way his skin shudders under that mouth, or the way he has no control over his body, hard and aching, and arching to press to the man before him. Valjean steps into him proper; he has to hold around his back to keep his balance, and suddenly there is a strong thigh between his legs, pressing into his groin. He cannot help the desperate noise that comes, and wishes he could block out Valjean’s answering groan. Where did the man learn to do this? The bagne, probably. It must be. And now he is about to be undone by a convict who is a good man, and it is so much more incomprehensible when his brain has decided not to function properly.

‘Wait,’ he says, too quietly to be heard. Perhaps it was only a moan. Valjean is unfastening the buttons of his shirt, one by one; he shuts his eyes, tries to swallow again, and cannot. His hands shake, holding on tight. The tip of his cock is wet; he can feel it slipping against his underclothes. How does this work? He simply bends, and lets the man have him? It is incongruous. It does not seem possible. A glance down tells him his body does not care about the mechanics, and neither does Valjean’s by the look of it. All he can think is that he has never been touched before, not like this; the closest he has come to skin-on-skin is when an arrest turned violent, and someone punched him. He barely even touches himself – though yes, that has become a little more frequent in the past year, when this depraved desire took hold of him proper. Still. The notion of another person with a hand on him – he cannot imagine it, even with Valjean pressed against him, even when his knuckles brush his chest as they work down his buttons. He tries to say _wait_ again, but his lips do not move. His cock surges approval at another faint push. He closes his eyes. Another person _in_ him? He cannot fathom it. He does not believe he wants it. His body calls him a liar.

‘Javert?’

He nods. It is the only thing he can do. Valjean kisses a closed eyelid. ‘Should we lie down?’

He nods again, because at least that means he will not fall. His breath comes harder, his chest is tight. It hurts. He cannot fill his lungs. Yet, he moans when the leg between his pulls back, mourning its loss; Valjean smiles against his cheek, and pushes a hand inside his opened shirt to lay warm against his ribs.

It is a caring gesture. Javert’s eyes fly open. His singing nerves explode all at once – not a climax, but an overload, a terrible, fearful pressure of _no, too much_ , and he jerks his head back without thinking.

‘Javert?’

The hand is still there. It feels as though every part of his skin is alive and acting on its own; he wants to push into it, and desperately, desperately, needs to get rid of it. But he is trapped by Valjean’s gentle confusion, his own insane desire, his own stupid body. For a long moment he just stands, still trembling, his consciousness entire under the palm of this man’s hand…and then it is too much, he cannot bear it, and pulls away.

‘I cannot. I am sorry. Forgive me, I cannot, I-‘ he is moving, heading for the door, pulling his shirt closed as he does. He imagines Valjean’s palm print as a burn; its heat remains, more beautiful than pain but liable to scar. He cannot look back. His coat, yes; his hat, yes; no hands free to straighten his clothing. He drops the hat, and pulls his thin jacket closed, fumbling the buttons.

‘Javert, wait! Do not – it is raining! Please, we do not have to do anything. I will not-‘ he is not listening, coat on, hat jammed over his ears. His cane; it is here somewhere. His heart is constricted. Valjean is coming. He must leave, or he never will. ‘-please do not. Please.’

It is the last word he hears before wrenches the door open, and disappears into the night. It is freezing, but he is glad of it. Until he finds the end of the street, and is shaking for a different reason, and realises the only warm part of him is where Valjean had laid his palm.

 

 

 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

 

It has been a week since he saw him. He sits at the small table in his bare rooms, a week’s worth of messages spread before him. They frame a blank sheet of paper; he has got so far as to write Valjean’s name on the top, but there his thoughts end. He finds himself re-reading the notes instead. The first came early the morning after – did the man sleep? – full of apologies, and practically pleading to know what he did wrong, though not in such obvious terms. The next came that same afternoon, asking for word that he was at least all right. He supposes the gamin who brought them had been told to return with confirmation of delivery, or any reply. He had not written one.

Thereafter, morning and afternoon, it continued. They got shorter. Still full of apologies, but less pleading. Perhaps Valjean thinks he will respond even less to such base desperation; it is true he finds it off-putting, but there is not much he would not forgive that man. And he did mean to reply. It is just that he does not know what to say. How to go about writing something he cannot make clear in his head? He cannot explain the reaction he had. Worse, if he were to respond to Valjean and apologise, and say it would not happen again – should they ever try again – he would be telling a lie. He does not know it would never happen again.

There is a knock at the door. Eleven o clock, another message. He does not bother to look at the door, and merely says, ‘enter’. He picks his pen up instead, and thinks of what he might say. He has been thinking of little else for seven days.

A moment later, he realises there has been no utterance from the gamin boy who must be one of Valjean’s regular loiterers for the amount of times he comes. He looks up, annoyed. But there is no gamin. It is him. It is Valjean. He stands with his hat in his hands, and an unreadable expression on his face. Javert feels a jolt of ice beat through him, followed by a surge of warmth. He has not been warm in a week.

‘Valjean.’

‘Javert.’

It is a long moment before he manages to pull himself to standing. A bow; one in return. A pause. It is no easier finding words to speak than words to put on paper. Eventually, Valjean steps closer. Not too close. A healthy distance remains.

‘You are writing a letter.’

‘I have been trying for a week.’

‘Ah.’

Javert puts his hands behind his back, then forces them to drop to his side. He is conscious of being in his shirt sleeves, but will not add layers now. That would surely be an insult. He simply returns Valjean’s searching look, and then watches as the man’s shoulders sag, and he looks at the floor.

‘I am so very sorry, Javert. If I had thought you did not want what I thought you did, I would never have pursued it. I am ashamed of myself. I apologise for coming here today, but I had to know you had read the notes, so you would know I am sincere. I should not have presumed. I only thought – that is, it seemed we wanted the same thing. I see now I was wrong.’

He does not know what to say. Valjean’s face is red, embarrassed; his heart cracks, and he takes a step forward. ‘It is I who owes you the apology, Valjean. My behaviour was strange, to say it plain. I would not blame you for being angry. I was inconsistent.’

It is not so hard to say it, even though he has never been inconsistent in his life. But there: he has thrown away that life, so should not compare himself to it.

‘You have the right to be inconsistent if you desire. No man is set in stone.’

‘Yes.’ He supposes so. It has been more than proved by now. He puts his hands behind his back. Valjean’s gaze pulls over his face, looks embarrassed about it again, looks away. Javert waits, conscious that it is he who should be talking. There are no words. It matters terribly, and not at all. It never does when they are alone in a room together. The air always fills with the same tension, a tangible pressure that steals the need to speak. He feels his thoughts must be written on his face when he is with Valjean, every secret there to be read. It is not just physical. If it were just physical, maybe he could resist.

In the end, he simply adds, ‘you came.’

Valjean nods, and a smile touches his lips. ‘Yes. Well, I thought you have spent enough time chasing me. It is for me to take a turn.’

Javert’s shoulders do not stiffen. Still, Valjean’s smile melts to nothing. Javert feels the words _it was my job_ sit heavily on his tongue, and has to swallow them away. He is getting better at not saying everything that comes to mind. ‘Ah.’

‘Well.’

His thoughts are sluggish. They reach for Valjean. He can hear the man thinking _what happened?_ It is practically emanating from his head. ‘Would you like tea?’

‘Javert.’

‘I have coffee also.’

‘Please, Javert.’

‘Do not say that to me. Do not.’ His hand is a fist. He stretches the fingers out, unseen. ‘You do not ever need to say _please_ to me, Valjean.’

‘Of course I do. What do you think I am?’

‘A far better man than I. Do not say _please_ to me. I cannot stand it. You should take what you want, and not say anything first.’ Valjean’s brow creases. Javert would pull the words back if he could. He cannot. They were the truth, anyway. They were low, and muttered, and shameful, but they were the truth. ‘I am sorry I left your house.’

‘Why did you leave my house?’ Valjean’s tone is colder. It is odd, but it is his right. Javert does not look at him.

‘You touched…I have never been touched like that. That is to say, I was not prepared for how it would feel.’

There is no reply. He feels his cheeks flush, but risks a glance. Valjean wears a frown, as if he understands the words but not their meaning. Or is looking for more meaning than there is. He cannot tell. The man would make an excellent card player.

‘That is all?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did it feel bad?’

‘…no.’

‘Ah.’

Silence. He swallows. He feels as he did the first day he willingly met Valjean after being pulled from the Seine; not good enough. But then, is anyone adequate compared to Jean Valjean?

The man clear his throat a little, and says, ‘I confess, I am confused. If you had said this at the time, I-‘

‘You would have stopped, I know.’

‘And so?’

‘That is why I did not say. I think. But then it was-‘ this is excruciating. And the man has brought winter sunlight with him on his coat; he smells fresh in this tiny room, he is big and solid and the only stable thing left. He is the thought that made every night after the Seine a living hell, and then, later, the only heaven that matters. He cannot bear him. He cannot breathe without him. He cannot breathe _with_ him, but the thought of drowning together is preferable to any other living he knows. ‘-I became overwhelmed.’

‘I believe that is the point. I am no expert.’

At least there is a trace of warmth back in his voice. Javert forces half a smile, but will not try to catch his eye. ‘I cannot explain. I apologise, monsieur.’

Valjean sighs. ‘You do not need to explain. I understand.’

‘Do you?’

‘Yes.’ He places his hat back on his head. Javert blinks at it, and then Valjean bows. ‘I will leave you now. Good day, monsieur.’

He watches, dumbstruck, as he walks away. He should let him go. He should not. He cannot. Only when Valjean’s hand is on the doorknob can he rouse himself. ‘Wait! Please.’

He does not turn around, but he does not leave. Javert steps closer, at a loss. ‘I do not know what to say.’

Valjean shakes his head. ‘Javert.’ He turns, his face neutral. ‘I am astounded.’

‘I have been dumbstruck before.’

‘Ah, yes. We must always remember those times I have rendered you so. When you have been so angry with me, or so surprised you…took drastic action.’

There is no heat in his tone, but it still burns as a reprimand should. He flushes again. ‘I do not understand.’

‘No. You do not. You tell me not to say _please_ to you as though you are a dog, and I your master. As if I would be so callous. As if you are not worthy to be my equal, when you are so much so. When you say these things Javert, I think you do not want us to manage each other. Perhaps we cannot. You are not being cruel; perhaps I am, though it is not my intention. It is just-‘ he falters, and his breath shudders when he draws it. Javert aches to smooth the sentence away, to find something to make it better. He can find no words. ‘-I have spent my life living in the darkness. It has almost killed me. I am an old man, and I cannot choose the shadows again. To do so would not be fair on Cosette; she has been quite plain on the matter. If you do not want me,’ he falters again, but Javert cannot move through the sudden fear in his throat, ‘then I will go away, and seek to content myself with the love of my family. It pains me to say it. It pains me greatly. But I-‘

It pains him to the degree where the sentence fades away. Javert is frozen in horror. His mouth will not work. Valjean’s eyes examine his face; whatever they are looking for, they do not find. They fall away. ‘Good day, Javert.’

The room is still as the door clicks shut behind him.

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter will be long, so bear with me. Should be finished by this time tomorrow. Apologies for skimming background details; I was determined to write something short, and not get pulled into a whole massive Thing. This is already three chapters longer than my initial plan for it. :\

 

 

 

He lies in the dark, and cannot find sleep. His fire is low, so the room is barely heated. His bed is narrow, and only just long enough. His head is still, and only just big enough; his thoughts have swelled to a size impossible to contain, and he does not know where to begin. He has only felt the sensation once before, and that did not turn out well. This is different. He has already handed in his resignation to Valjean; he is his, and will not try to deny it, no matter how shaming it is. He has never told the man that; how could he? Yet it strikes him as strange that he should have lived fifty years with his eyes downcast before every perceived superior, but the one who deserves that respect has rarely been shown it. Does not want it, even.

 _We must always remember those times I have rendered you so. When you have been so angry with me, or so surprised you…took drastic action_. He cannot fathom the meaning of these words. He does not think he has thrown their past in Valjean’s face; indeed, they have only spoken of it once in any detail. It was the time he had knocked on the man’s door, a month after the last of the Seine’s water left him, a week after his ribs had healed enough to let him breathe without pain so sharp he would vomit. They had spoken then, yes. Bitter words, full of fury; _why did you let me go? It was my right to die._ And Valjean had muttered apologies he freely admitted he did not feel, refused to say sorry for dragging him out of the river, openly laughed when Javert tried to thank him. His eyes had been too deep in his face even then; Javert had not meant to go back. They had not spoken of such matters again, except in a passing comment here and there. Then he had gone back, and Valjean had come to him, thinner and more weary every time. And then he stopped coming. Javert thinks of the day he went looking, only to come across his daughter frantically packing clothes into a bag. Her words had been punctuated with tears, with rage against herself for being so caught in happiness that she could not see what was before her. Valjean in hospital. Valjean hours away from being unsaveable. Valjean so nearly lost, and the bottom dropped out of his world again. Whatever had started that night on the parapet – he still does not know what to call it, other than a complete loss of faith – was finished now. He kissed him two days later. Valjean had smiled, and taken his hand, and murmured from a body almost too weakened to breath; _what did I do to deserve that?_

Is that not the point? It seems logical, lying here encased in night. What did he ever do to deserve Inspector Javert? Stole a paltry loaf of bread. That is all. Yes, he flouted the law; yes it is – was – infuriating. But he did not deserve what happened; he proved he was better against every obstacle, he proved the inequality of Javert’s religion by suffering every imaginable part of it. He would be better off without him here  as a constant reminder. He believes it to be true with every fibre of his being – except the part that stores certain memories. The heat of his kisses. The way he smiles when Javert catches his eye. The feel of his hand on his back, placed there for no other reason than it is available, and Valjean likes to touch. And now he is denying him that too?

He groans, and rolls to his side. Surely, there can be no more ways to fail. Surely. Please, God.

 

*

 

He knocks with more strength than he feels. It is still some hours before dawn, and his breath hangs frigid in the air. There are no lights to be seen in the house, though the garden gate was unlocked for once. Valjean has rooms at his daughter’s home; he might live there all the time, if Javert had not kissed him. As it is, he splits his time between the two, and now Javert is openly praying. If he is not here, if he has gone to the Baron’s house, then he meant never to come back. He knows Javert will not go there. But if he is-

The door opens. The relief is almost unbearable. Valjean fills the doorway, holding a silver candlestick – Javert does not look at it – dressed in soft trousers and loose shirt. He looks at that instead.

‘Javert.’ He does not stand aside to let him in. His eyes are hard to make out, but that is well. They are always so damned merciful. He would give a lot to see anger in them, even only once.

 ‘If I did not want it, I would never have come this far.’

‘It?’

‘…you.’

Everything is still. And then, Valjean steps back. Javert walks after him, head down. The living room is warm, the fire built up. The armchair is pulled close to it, and there is a book on the small table to its side. It is not open. Valjean sets the candlestick back on the mantle, and turns to him. Javert does not think; he does not want to think any more, and words only seem to make things worse. Before Valjean has stopped moving he is closing in; he hears a sound of surprise, but ignores it. He takes Valjean’s face between his hands, and kisses him with all the feeling he cannot speak; sorrow, regret, lust, confusion. It is hard, it is messy. Valjean’s hands grip to keep himself upright. But he responds in kind, tongue and lips, surprise left carelessly behind. The darkness recedes; the world fades to _this_. When they break apart, the room does not reappear.

‘I will not ever mention it again. Any of the times you have acted in ways that astound me. I will not keep reminding you of the past.’ Their foreheads are touching. He does not open his eyes. He cannot look at Valjean from so close, he will burn up and be destroyed.  ‘You acted in good faith, always. The fault was mine. The responsibility for my actions was mine. I know this. I will stop saying things to make you believe I blame you. I-‘

Valjean lets him go. The room jerks back into existence. They are too close to the fire, so close it hurts. Valjean steps away, and Javert feels his full heart deflate. He looks at the man’s back, the shift of the muscles as he raises his arm and runs his hand through his own hair. It stops there, at the back of his head, and grips for a moment. There is a sigh, then everything relaxes. ‘You think that is why I left?’

‘Yes?’

‘No. It was when you said that-‘ Valjean turns around. His expression is resigned, but not angry. Frustrated. ‘Are you going to stay tonight?’

‘When I said what?’

‘Please, answer the question. If I know what your intentions are, I can know what to do. Are you going to stay?’

‘If you will have me.’

For the first time he can remember, he sees Valjean roll his eyes. Dismay starts to rise, but then the man smiles. He takes the candlestick up again, and says, ‘follow me.’

He follows. He does not understand, but that has been his default for the last year. He had not known it was possible to be so ignorant of everything the rest of the world seems to grasp so easily. In this, especially. All he can do is follow. He has always been good at that.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final part is already ridiculously long, and still going. I'm splitting it into two to keep things manageable.
> 
> And I should have said at the start - all this is unbeta'd, and I rarely edit much. I'm far too lazy for that. If there are any glaring clangers, do let me know.

 

 

 

 

Valjean takes him to the bedroom. It is less sparse than his own, but not by much. It is warm, and the bed is turned down. There is even a rug. He stands on it while two more candles are lit, and then Valjean comes to him. He is not smiling with his mouth, but it is there in his eyes. Javert stands and is kissed, soft as a butterfly landing on a leaf. ‘When I said what?’ he murmurs. Valjean’s fingers are on his neck, then pushing his coat from his shoulders. He lays it over the back of a wooden chair, then returns.

‘When you said I should take what I want, and not say anything first. Is that what you think of me?’

His eyes fly open. Valjean’s search them immediately, a look of quiet tension on his face. ‘I did not mean you would…not without permission! I meant that-‘ he does not want to admit this, but there is a thrill to it too. He cannot deny the flicker of arousal starting in him, no matter that it is buried under all this uncertainty. ‘That you could have what you want of me. That I would not resist you.’ It finishes as an embarrassed mutter. Valjean’s hand is on his shoulder. It occurs to him they are back where they started, and he does not mean to run this time. He told himself he would not. But he still has to traverse the new territory of hands, and skin, and a desire so strong he cannot hope to contain it. Occasionally, he wonders if Valjean feels it so deeply. They have spent a long time kissing, this last year. Little more than that – but then, it has always been him that has pulled away, too taken by fear to allow anything further. If Valjean has not been overt in his need, perhaps it is more because he has not been given the chance.

Well, he will have the chance tonight. Javert steels himself, nerves fluttering in his belly. Valjean’s gaze is intent, and he does not touch. Even the hand at his shoulder has fallen away.

‘I do not want you simply to not resist. And I will never take anything you do not offer freely,’ he says, quietly. ‘If you do not believe that, we can go no further.’

‘I believe it.’ No hesitation. And he takes Valjean’s hand, and brings it to his chest. He is still dressed, but his skin jumps all the same. He sees Valjean’s throat work up and down, and then he nods. His hand does not move. For a moment, they just look at each other.

‘You have really never been touched before?’

His cheeks flush, just a little. His chin raises. ‘Never.’ He cannot read Valjean’s face; it is set somewhere between neutral, and shy. A moment later, he thinks to add, ‘have you?’

‘No. At least, not in this way. I have embraced my daughter, of course.’

It is not the same thing at all. Javert feels himself staring. He does not voice the question that springs to mind, though by the expression of resignation he sees emerge, he will not have to. ‘No, Javert. Not even there.’

He nods, and looks down. Places his hand over the one resting on his heart. He does not know what to do next. The nerves are getting stronger; with every word, they bypass things that need to be said, and bring them closer to things that need to be _done_. Valjean leans in, their noses brush as he dips his head to reach his downturned mouth. The kiss is little more than a sweet press of lips, but it acts as oil on water. He is soothed a little. He does know how to do _this_. They have become rather good at it. He kisses back in kind, and does not push for more when Valjean retreats. He waits. He knows he is being watched for signs he might run. In reply to what is not spoken, he slips his jacket off his shoulders and lets it drop. Valjean licks his bottom lip as he starts on the buttons of his waistcoat. He lets it hang open, and holds the man’s gaze as he pulls at the knot of his cravat. It comes free easily, and is deposited on the floor. His top button is stiff, but he manages after a moment. He is stopped from going further by Valjean’s hand closing on his. ‘Let me do the rest,’ he murmurs, and Javert feels a familiar stirring in his groin. He swallows, and nods. But Valjean does not continue the work. His hands fall again; Javert notices his fingers twitching in indecision. Before he can ask, it becomes clear. The man goes to unfasten one of his own cuffs – it is a clear gesture any man can recognise – but stops before he touches it. He tries again. Javert watches. He is not sure if he should intervene, but does not have to decide. Valjean drops his eyes, and loosens the thing. Then the other. He goes so far as to pull his shirt from his trousers, but going further seems a step too far. Javert hesitates again…then reaches out, and slowly, ever so gently, slides his fingers under the material at one wrist. Valjean stiffens immediately, and he can see why. The skin is rough and bunched, like a bed sheet twisted up in the washtub. He pauses, a vague feeling of horror creeping up through him. _I did this_. _I have marked him so._

They stand like that, still, for uncounted seconds. Javert knows that to withdraw his hand would be a disaster. If he wants to, it is not because of revulsion he feels towards Valjean – but it will seem that way. He swallows hard, and gathers his courage. His fingers move; they slip around, to the underside that would be soft on anyone else. He strokes with the pads of his fingertips. Valjean’s eyes are closed. His breath holds a tremor. Javert closes his hand gently around his wrist, and it is his turn to bend his head, and offer solace with a kiss.

‘You have been touched before. And I am sorry for it.’

The sound from Valjean is not quite a sob. He is not crying. But he presses his face into Javert’s shoulder anyway; they stand like that in silence for a moment or two, leaning into each other, Javert holding his wrist in a loose grip. He could spend the night like this, he thinks. He could stand here, and melt into the resting deeps of this man, dissolve under his skin, drown in what he offers. It is the only way he would wish to be lost. He loops his free arm around his shoulders, holds him close and thanks God for not letting him throw this away.

‘You will have to take it off,’ he hears, muffled against his waistcoat. He nods, and slides his hands up Valjean’s hips until they have grasped the hem of his shirt. He lifts it slowly, but with no hesitation. He is allowed to do so, no more. Valjean raises his arms until it is pulled over his head; he does not avert his eyes this time, but there is no defiance in his gaze. Javert holds it with his own, and reads a silent plea there. For what, he is not sure. If he looks down, he is not sure if he will remember what he sees. He has seen the marks on thousands of men. But they are not _this_ man. He does not know if he wants to recognise them or not.

He drops the shirt. Valjean manages a strained chuckle. ‘I do not know whether to ask you to ignore me, or to-‘

‘They do not matter.’ He speaks without thinking, something he rarely does. But it is the truth. He puts his hands on Valjean’s shoulders; even in doing that, he feels the start of too-smooth skin under his fingers. ‘Not to me. But – I will not suggest they mean nothing to you.’

‘I do not know. I never thought anyone would see them.’ A slight huff of feigned amusement. ‘I think I know how you felt a week ago.’

Javert kisses him again. He feels warm under his clothes. It is tension more than overt arousal, but it will not take much for that to bloom. It is coming, he knows. As long as he does not make a mistake. He does not pull back far from the kiss. ‘Turn around,’ he breathes, against Valjean’s lips. ‘Please.’

The hesitation is clear. He waits. There is a pained look in Valjean’s eyes, and his fingers still twitch. But after a moment, he turns. Javert keeps a hand on him as he does, and when his back is exposed, he tries not to draw a breath in case it is heard.

The sight is not familiar – that is, in any specific way. He has seen many backs that look like this. But on Valjean, there is no outstanding memory of having seen it before, and for that he is grateful. He cannot point to any of the ravished points of his skin, and say _I was there when that happened. I did this one. He was tied to the post for that one._ But still, it does not help the general horror. How many years has it been? Some of the marks are still a strange mottled pink, laid over others faded to a smooth white, as if a child took an eraser to his skin and rubbed the surface of it away in jagged lines. There are welts here and there – gouges from a belt buckle perhaps, or from injuries while working. Stones fell, sometimes. A man lost an eye, once. More than one lost their lives. He touches the most obvious remaining scar without thinking, running his finger the length of it. It starts above his right shoulder blade, and runs in a pure diagonal line, tapering off at his left side, under the ribs. He can see the fall of the whip, the deep indentation of the initial contact, the lick of the end – the part that stings the most, he has heard – flicking at the thinner skin pulled over bone. He cannot dream of how much it must have hurt. By the dent at the shoulder blade, the bite would have been deep. There would have been a lot of blood.

Valjean is shaking. Javert feels vaguely nauseated. Without a thought, he steps in, bends, kisses the top of the scar. He hears a gasp. He has no idea if he is making it worse, but Valjean does not move, or tell him to stop. He kisses further along it. He kisses all the way along its length; by the time he is at his ribs, Valjean is silent and his hand has made a fist. But his breath is shallow for reasons that are clearly not anguish. Javert rubs his palm over his flat stomach, suddenly aware of the muscle that is still taut, despite his age. He stills. Valjean does not move. He realises he has his mouth on another man’s body; it causes laughter to bubble through him, and he stands straight, nervous he has made things worse. But Valjean smiles at him softly, and does not seem as troubled.

‘Are they very bad?’ he asks, almost timidly. ‘I have never looked.’

‘Yes. They are very bad.’ He kisses his mouth; Valjean cranes his neck for more when he breaks it off. He gives it to him. Eventually, he is able to say, ‘do you mind if I touch them? Later, I mean. If you prefer me not to, I will not.’

Valjean hesitates again. ‘If they bother you, then-‘

‘They do not. Not to touch, at any rate.’ He could expound on this, but perhaps it is not the time. It is a conversation that can wait.

‘You may touch me wherever you like, Javert. In fact, I have been hoping you will for a long time.’

They share a smile. Javert feels the knot of tension in his gut loosen a little. It is not so awkward as it could be. Perhaps it will be in the future, but that is not now. ‘Very well.’ It is hard to know where to start. It is so _strange_ , to simply stand before another person and put his hands on them. He has never had difficulty doing it with criminals, but this is entirely different. He looks first. Valjean’s body has not withered with age, despite the man’s best efforts at starving life out of himself. Before his brush with death, he was perhaps a little softer at the middle – though that could have been layers of clothing – but since he wasted to practically nothing, he has regained little fat. Everything before him is taut, pulled, chiselled from some supernatural rock that has made this man so strong. He should eat more. How does a body like this sustain itself on so little? He should be weak. He is very clearly not.

Javert licks along his own bottom lip, and places his fingertips in the centre of it, just below the twin bulges of chest muscles. Valjean lets out a long breath, slow and measured. He follows its example, and traces a line – soft, so soft – with his fingertips; they rise and dip over the ridges of stomach, and he adds a tiny hint of fingernails as he runs lower. They come to rest at the waistband of his trousers; by the time they do, Valjean’s chest is rising faster. If he is not mistaken, it is not the only thing rising.

‘I do not know what to do,’ he mutters, quietly. ‘I want to please you, but I have never-‘

Valjean kisses him. It is not so soft as before; there is a note of insistence in it that makes his skin wake up and take notice. ‘I do not know either,’ he says, just as quietly. ‘But I think it is my turn to touch.’

Such simple words, but his blood hears with something other than ears. He listens to it rise, murmuring excited whispers under his skin. Some of it starts to pool; it occurs to him vaguely that he may disgrace himself long before he gets what he has tried not to think about, this last year. It does not matter. They have time. He nods to Valjean, an unsteady motion of his head. He is kissed again, and then there are fingers on the highest button of his shirt left open. As soon as they flick one open his heart starts thumping, just as it did last time. His focus shifts abruptly; two seconds ago he thought of nothing but Valjean, and it was well enough. He could control himself then. Now the world narrows to the confines of his own uncertain body, and it is a far less manageable thing.

‘Be calm,’ says Valjean, forcing him to look into his eyes by simple dint of seeming as though he wants him to. ‘I will stop any time you ask. We do not have to do anything at all. I will not mind.’ Javert glances down his body, and is rewarded with a bashful smirk. ‘ _That_ will just have to wait.’

He slips two fingers a little under Valjean’s waistband and hooks them there, resting the backs of them against his warm stomach. ‘I do not want to make it wait.’

The smirk disappears. Valjean silently gulps a breath. And then kisses him again, deeper than any he has started tonight, and moans when Javert slides their tongues together carefully. He could get used to hearing that sound. He runs his other hand down Valjean’s side, and is rewarded with another. They do not come apart, but his buttons are being dispatched one by one, and errant thoughts crowd in with each one; that he spent so long resisting this, that it is shameful to want what he wants, and it is probably some kind of sin; that he will have to be careful, or he will embarrass himself with the things he wants to ask, wants to say, wants done to him. He has tried to not to want them. He really has. And all that aside, it is already hard to control the nerves making his chest heave every breath. Every button lets the warmth of the room, the warmth of this man, press  directly on his throat, his chest, the top of his stomach. And then they are all gone, and Valjean once more palms his way inside. His nerves flare in an instant, his skin breaks into bumps. The fine hair on his arms reaches for more. He cannot move, cannot do anything but attempt to steady his breath when Valjean pushes his collar back, and applies his mouth to his throat. His hands move down his ribs, pausing only to pull the bottom of his shirt free from his trousers. He feels dishevelled at once, but does not mind as he usually does. He closes his eyes, and gives himself over to the man’s hands.

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost can't believe I'm about to upload this. Two points:
> 
> I) I'm almost sure they didn't have button-down shirts back then, as I described in the last chapter, but eh. 
> 
> II) It's been literally years since I wrote porn. And this is possibly the longest, most rambling porn in the history of fanfic. But it's done, and I've written it, so I'll put it up. Let me know if it works - or doesn't.

 

 

Valjean’s touch is primitive in its exploration, hungry but not rough. He thinks – dimly, through the throb starting between his legs – that it is apt; the man is – was – primitive. That maybe this is where he should have sought proof of Jean Valjean when he hid behind Madeleine’s clothes. The thought would make him laugh if he were currently capable; the notion of approaching Madeleine this way, looking to pull the wolf from the lamb’s covering, is inconceivable. He gasps instead. Valjean’s mouth sucks gently at his neck. His hands are warm; gentle and grasping. Just as last time, he almost cannot stand it. ‘I may fall,’ he says to himself, and then realises he must have spoken the words, because Valjean starts to ease him backwards towards the bed. A note of panic babbles out in the back of his mind; he nudges Valjean’s head up and kisses him on the mouth to calm it. He wants to say _wait_ , but does not. He does not want to wait. He may crave the desire for his own previous purity, he may be in the throes of being pulled off the pedestal he once venerated, but he cannot bring himself not to want this.

‘Are you sure?’ he hears, and cannot answer. He kisses him again, deep and rough and unbearably sweet; it starts as a soft push of his lips and ends as something ravening as he is pressed down to the mattress. Valjean, kneeling above him, is huge. He is a wall of solid muscle blocking out the candlelight, his thighs straddle one of Javert’s legs like a tiger over its prey, his shoulders seem an unbreachable cliff. From this position, his arousal is obvious. Javert bites his bottom lip as nerves threaten once again. His fingers ache with the desire to pull at the buttons holding those trousers closed. The lump is obscene. He is obscene. He wants nothing more than to touch it, and see what happens to Valjean’s face. He has dreamt of what expressions he might draw forth, how the man’s body might feel under his touch. He has lain awake at nights trying to push it from his mind; sometimes he has given in and handled his own shame, imagining the hands of another stroking and pulling. But the slow burn of desire only catches light when he thinks of those eyes, the tension of his muscles, the way they would surely contract in bliss. To hold on to them while the man loses control inside him – it is always that which completes the act, which makes him arch and sully his fingers as he squeezes the need free.

It is no longer a shameful fantasy. It is a shameful reality, and he tries to remember what it felt to be apart from this, the time he spent looking down at others who squabbled, and fought, and made noises in the filthy dark. He was so lofty. So disdainful. Valjean’s hand runs over his chest, brushes his nipple and he thinks, _so stupid_. How could anyone not want this?

His fingers alight on the first button of Valjean’s trousers. They are covered with a large hand immediately. ‘Are you _sure_ , Javert?’

He looks up, defiant. ‘Off.’

He is rewarded with a grin, that smile that is like a sunbeam on a wintry day. Bathed in it, his thoughts leave him. Oh, God. This man. This accursed man. He shudders out another breath, takes Valjean by the back of the neck and pulls him down to be kissed. Somewhere in the midst of it, he lets go of the button. He finds his hand cupping between his legs instead, squeezing, and Valjean lets out a noise more startled than overcome. He pulls back an inch. He is panting. Javert does not remove his hand. ‘Is this alright?’

‘Yes. By Heaven, yes.’

He does not know what he is doing, but it does not seem to matter. Even through the cloth, the lump is impressive. He squeezes again, and then starts to rub. Valjean groans, and his eyes close. He is utterly still; lying beneath him, Javert has the perfect view of his face. Yes, it is good. It is as he thought. It is a beautiful sight. He rubs harder, and Valjean lets out another sound. His hips start to rock minutely, coming to meet the firm pressure of that squeezing hand. ‘Is it good?’

‘Yes. Yes, yes, it is very good.’

He leans up and braves a kiss, a small suck, on Valjean’s earlobe. Until a short time before, he has never put his lips anywhere other than his mouth. Images spring to mind, unbidden, of where else he might put them. A wave of arousal surges at the mere idea, and he groans too, and speeds his hand. It is a mistake. Valjean gasps quietly, opens his eyes, and rakes his gaze down his body. He stops pressing into his hand. Javert retreats with his mouth – not his hand – and lies under that stare, utterly exposed. He notices how wantonly his shirt hangs open. He notices how hard his cock is. He looks away. Valjean retreats from his grip, and lies down beside him; the side he was looking to, so he has no choice but to see him.

‘I have never seen you shy before.’

‘You have never had me touch you there before either. What of it?’

Valjean chuckles, and rests his hand on his stomach. It contracts under it, but this is ignored. It moves lower. ‘What are you afraid of?’

‘Are you not?’

Fingers walk calmly over his trousers, and move down. Javert listens only vaguely to the question, and barely hears his own in answer. Little exists beyond what that hand is doing. It stops a bare centimetre from the tip of his aching prick, and it is all he can do not to squirm. ‘Yes. Until you touch me. And then I am not.’ Valjean kisses him. When it is done, Javert lies still, eyes closed. ‘You might find the same.’

‘You are touching me now,  and I am still afraid.’

Valjean starts to unbutton his trousers. Javert’s mouth dries in an instant. The solid bulk of Valjean is both intimidating, and reassuring. It is all too easy to imagine resting his back against him, and being touched to completion. But that is not want he wants. Other things are even better to imagine, and he wants them while he has the nerve to ask.

The front of his trousers is pulled open. Javert looks down to be faced with his own straining erection making a stand in his undergarments. He would flush, but Valjean is doing that for both of them. He watches as the man stares, and then swallows, and then licks his lips. For a second, it seems as though he is about to ask permission, which is the very last thing Javert wants; he does not want to have to make decisions about this, he does not want to be made to think. He wants the opposite. He wants all thought removed. For the first time in his life, he is desperate to _feel_. But Valjean does not move – not until he makes a small sound, and pushes his hips up in silent invitation. He counts three heartbeats, and one hitched breath from Valjean…and then his hand descends. A glorious, firm, large hand, which comes to rest squarely on his arousal. He fills his lungs, and lets it out. It is bearable. It is throbbing, and hot, and there is an obvious dampness to his linen drawers, but his nerves are not enough to spoil it. And then Valjean bends and presses a kiss to his chest; he licks along the muscle, he tongues a nipple to hardness which is enough to make him arch on its own. His hand starts to move, and there are no nerves left available to feel fear. Every one of them jerks to attention, and starts to shout in joy; a surge jolts downwards, and pulls a small cry from his throat. Valjean does not stop. By the time his mouth moves across his chest to his other nipple, Javert is thrusting up to meet him, his fingers buried in the man’s soft curls, grunting quietly with every soft jerk. He is aware of nothing but Valjean’s body next to his, and the exquisite pleasure rolling up from his groin. It is not sharp and frantic, as he supposed it would be. It is not the same as doing it himself, when he knows where to most pressure his fingers to make it end quicker, with more explosion. No, it is just a warm, firm, all-encompassing presence that he can rut himself against, and enjoy in a way that is almost sweet. He never wants it to end, except for the thought that there is more he wants to feel, and it will not be as good if he allows this to go on. He is about to tell Valjean to stop, when those lips start moving up his body, kissing a path along his collarbones to get to his neck, his ear, his lips. Valjean is panting quietly. He is pulling the small button that holds his underwear closed. Javert holds his breath, and does not stop him. They both watch, breathless, as the material falls away; he does flush this time as his erection is revealed. Valjean does not. He stares. And then he moans, deep and guttural, sucks hard at Javert’s neck, and moves over a little so he can push against his hip.

‘Good God,’ he says, and pulls the material more. He does not stop until everything is displayed, his swollen, wet-tipped prick and tight, heavy balls. Javert cannot look any more, but also cannot stop the cry – no longer soft – as he feels his scrotum taken in a gentle hand. It is rolled tenderly in his palm, fingers draw light pressure over the softest of skin. And then, mercifully, he is taken in hand proper, and Valjean starts to carefully work his shaft.

He has no words in his head to make it rational. It is simply what it is. It is pleasure, thick and overpowering, muscling its way up his body. Valjean is gentle, but that means his finger only brushes the sensitive patch under the head of his prick – exactly what he likes, exactly what makes him cry out. His toes curl, his fingers clutch at Valjean’s side. He watches, wide-eyed, as beads form at the end and are swirled away, rubbed down his length until it is shining and slick, running fast in Valjean’s careful fist. His thighs tense and then tremble; his backside pushes off the bed to get more. He is being kissed and can barely respond; Valjean is pushing against his hip and moaning into his neck. He is aware, vaguely, of the man’s arousal pressed hard against him, but his free hand is bunching the sheet and he cannot let go to reach for it. ‘You will finish me,’ he gasps out, and Valjean pumps him harder, until he is twisted and thrusting and can think of nothing but the heat and the dreadful, beautiful ache forming a solid ball between his legs. But he does not want to end here. And he does not want to be selfish. He forces himself to let go of Valjean’s side, and pushes between them so he can yank at his trouser fastenings. It is no good; there is not enough room, and he cannot focus because oh _God_ , Valjean’s fingers are toying with the head of his prick, stroking it, rubbing underneath, touching down the thick ridge that joins it to the shaft. Javert lets out a muffled cry, and on instinct grabs at the man’s wrist.

‘Wait. _Wait_.’

The pressure halts, but does not leave. He takes a moment to collect himself, then half-sits so he can reach. It is still awkward, and Valjean looks confused, hazy with lust. ‘…what?’

‘Let me…there. Come here.’ The buttons come loose. He kisses Valjean’s softly panting mouth, and slips his hand between his thighs. There is an instant strained noise – he does not know which of them made it. There is no material under his fingers. Only a stiff cock, unfettered by underwear. Of course, it is the middle of the night. It does not matter, he does not care. He fondles up the shaft, and tries to breathe evenly as Valjean pushes him back down to the bed with a moan, and moves so he is between his legs. It was obviously not planned, but Javert is more than happy with it. He spreads his thighs a little, accepts Valjean’s tongue into his mouth and thrusts upwards when he feels a hard rod of flesh push against his own.

‘God. Javert.’

It is an uncoordinated mess. He still does not care. His fingers curl over Valjean’s shoulders, and hang on tight as they rut together. He looks down and watches for a bare few seconds…that is him, completely exposed in abject lust, his prick jutting from his trousers and rubbing against another man’s. He would laugh if he could. Ridiculous. Stupid. The most unbearably intoxicating sight he has ever seen. Valjean’s shaft looks thick and solid; flushed as red as his own and just as wet. The sound he makes is close to a whimper, and he does not try to stop himself as he reaches down to wrap his hand around both, so he may push them together.

‘Oh, God. Javert no, I will finish. Please-‘

He lets go. It is imperative this not end yet. Valjean’s mouth is hot and damp against his ear, but that is the only other point of contact between them. He tries to still his hips, but his thighs shake with need. It feels as though a fuse has been lit under the skin there, drawing heat up the soft inner parts of him. He has felt it before, but not with a man heaving between his legs. He cannot make sense of it, and does not want to.

Valjean lifts himself, arms braced either side of his head. Javert watches him take in his pale, naked chest, the splay of his legs, their twin arousal. He starts to move again, eyes closed, mouth hanging open. All Javert sees is the pull of those strong stomach muscles, working to bring them together. He wants that against him. He wants more than they are doing now. He has to ask, or it will be too late.

‘Valjean. Wait.’

He stills again, and looks down. Javert feels his cheeks flush redder, and hopes it is hidden in the candlelight. ‘I want-‘

He cannot ask for this. It is incongruous. Even Valjean looks mystified…that is, until realisation starts to creep onto his face. ‘Oh.’

He cannot read the expression. Everything is throbbing. His blood is a dull roar in his ears. His prick wants attention so much it is crying. It is all he can do to lie still. ‘Please.’

‘Are you sure? That is-‘

‘Only if-‘

‘Of course I-‘

They stare at each other. Embarrassment starts to overtake arousal, just a little. Valjean blinks his haze away, shakes his head a little and then smiles. It seems a little thin, but perhaps that is just his imagination. It must be, because the kiss pressed to his lips is as hungry as before. ‘I’m sorry. Of course. I was just not expecting it to be tonight. But of course, if that is what you want.’

‘I do.’

‘Well.’

Javert thinks this would be a good time to take the rest of their clothes off. But Valjean is still over him, and still looking confused. ‘Valjean?’

‘I was just…which one of us is to…?’

‘…oh!’ He huffs a small laugh. He had never thought this in question. Not even once, over this whole year. He puts his hands on Valjean’s cheeks, and kisses him until he can no longer breathe. When they are finished, they are moving together again, their bodies taking over, and the quiet haze has returned to Valjean’s eyes. ‘You can have me. Please.’ He breathes it into his mouth, little more than a whisper that seems loud  in the quiet of the space between them.

‘It is what you want?’

‘Yes. It is what I want.’

There is a moment of hesitation more. Then Valjean nods, and pushes up so he is kneeling. ‘Very well.’

Javert finds himself staring once more. The man is older than he by a good decade or so. But his body, looming over him with his erection standing from loosened trousers that hang off his hips…he cannot look away, and every sensation in his body rushes to the knot of tension between his legs. He knows it is depraved to want this, but in this moment, it is _all_ he wants.

He sits up, and presses his mouth to the centre of Valjean’s chest. He feels fingers push into his hair; they start to gentle through it a second later, and he loops his arms around the man’s strong back. ‘Is it something _you_ want?’ He should have asked that first, probably. But Valjean’s voice comes at once, low and breathy; he hears it even as he is aware it would not take much of a shift for him to lower his head – as he should, before Jean Valjean – and take his prick into his mouth. He does not, but the thought makes his head swim, and his vision cloud.

‘Of course I want to. I just thought you would need more time.’

‘I do not. I have made you wait long enough.’

Valjean’s fingers touch under his chin, and usher it upwards. ‘It is not something you should offer for that reason, Javert.’

‘I am not.’ He leans back a little, so his body may be seen openly. ‘Does it look like something I am unsure about?’

Valjean smiles at that, and shakes his head. Javert puts a hand on that flat stomach, slides it down until he finds his cock, and does not break eye contact as he starts to pull. Valjean sucks in a breath, his muscled chest contracting at once. ‘I want you to have me.’

‘I never expected, in all my life – ah _Javert_ …to hear those words from you.’

‘You have heard them now. Please.’

He is not the man he was last year. He wants things now. He does not work for the police, and will hear little talk of law. He walks for no other reason than to stretch his legs, he reads books that are supposed to give enjoyment, he allows his body to yearn for another when he is alone at night. Is it so strange that he will not deny himself this? It is not right, probably. But he has spent so much time being wrong, he knows he must try. And he wants. Oh God, he wants.

Valjean closes his hand over his wrist, and gently stills his movement. He lets go reluctantly, and hears a quiet chuckle. ‘If you desire more, you must stop. I could finish in seconds.’

He looks up again, startled. Somehow, he has never considered whether Valjean’s seeming eagerness is real. He has only thought about his own. ‘You have thought about this, then?’

The chuckle becomes a short huff of incredulity. Valjean leans down, eye to eye only an inch apart. ‘I have not stopped thinking of it. I have thought about it every day.’

The kiss is hard, and removes all doubts. Javert is gasping when it is done, and his shirt is finally being pushed all the way off his shoulders. He pulls at Valjean’s trousers in turn, and his stomach turns over in a tight flop when they come down so easily. His cock suddenly looks very large; his mouth waters, and his balls tighten with nerves. But he has asked for it now. Practically begged. He will not turn away. And Valjean seems sure enough for both of them. He pulls Javert’s boots off with strong hands, strips his stockings away and when Javert lifts his hips, does the same with his trousers and underwear. Everything is dropped without ceremony off the side of the bed, and Javert feels his heart fill his throat as Valjean stands, lets his own trousers fall, and opens the bedside drawer to retrieve a small bottle. He is confused for a moment, and then feels his cheeks redden once more. ‘You keep something to hand?’

It is Valjean’s turn to look embarrassed as he kneels back on the bed. ‘I thought it would be better to have it than not. I was by no means sure it would be needed, but-‘

Javert puts a hand on his stomach. It is only meant as reassurance, but he finds he cannot lift it. The skin is so _warm_. ‘I am glad you have it.’ A pause, and he finds a smile. ‘Though if you did not, I would still let you.’

Valjean stares down at him, and utters a short laugh. ‘I wish I were surprised. You have never let yourself be comfortable.’

He does not want to dwell on that. He does not want to talk. He brings his other palm up to run down the taut skin over Valjean’s ribs. The man’s face closes down at once. ‘If you would not mind, Valjean-‘

‘Yes.’

The oil is thin and runny, and Valjean pours too much into his hand. It drips between his fingers, and lands in warm spots on Javert’s thighs. It fills his palm and falls to the sheet. Javert considers where it is going to end up – the stark reality is standing eager in front of him, and he cannot seem to rid himself of the desire to suck on it until it explodes. He does not. He tries to swallow the lump of fear in his throat instead, and leans up on one elbow to watch Valjean sigh at the mess he has made. It makes him smile. The man regards his overflowing palm ruefully, and simply presses it to the base of his own stomach. Javert’s eyes widen as oil runs from underneath, drips on to his cock and slides between his legs, only to be caught by Valjean’s shining hand and gently slicked down the straining length.

‘Oh, good God,’ he mutters, unable to look away. Valjean’s fingers touch carefully, making sure everything is covered, teasing the head for pleasure – his, and that of his audience, Javert thinks, because Valjean’s other hand comes to stroke through his hair. He must see what the sight is doing to him; without conscious thought his knees pull apart, and he shifts in discomfort on the mattress. Valjean smiles tightly, releases himself and runs a slippery hand over Javert’s erection instead.

‘Do you prefer one way, or the other?’ he asks, softly.

‘I have never done this before. I do not know.’

‘Yes, but – have you considered?’

How far he has come in a week, he thinks, as he nods. The mortification of admitting it is almost entirely drowned in desire. ‘Like this, I think.’ He wants to see his face. Confessing that is a step too far, but Valjean does not question him further. He just nods, and bends his back so he can kiss him. Javert allows it, and uses the distraction to fondle the man’s prick again. It is so thick, so solid. The head feels enormous to his questing fingers. Nerves tighten through him again, tempered by the thrill of illicit excitement. It will hurt, yes. It will be exquisite.

Valjean’s hips are rocking into his touch even as he kisses him. His breath is starting to quicken once more, and Javert realises all of a sudden – this is it. Seconds away, inches only, and he will be allowing the second greatest violation of his life. He squirms with the sudden jolt of fire in him and the thoughts fly apart; Valjean’s fingers pull at the tip of his cock, slip off, down, gently caress his balls. And then lower, lower, and Javert gasps and clutches too hard; Valjean eases his hand off him with a quiet sound, and takes his mouth again. It does not stop the sound he makes when a finger slips to his entrance and starts to push, only muffles it. He is tense at once. Valjean keeps kissing him, but he cannot focus on the soft suck of the man’s lips. The finger sends thrills up from the core of him; excitement and nerves and pain, a heady mix of tension he does not know how to dissipate. Nothing else is touching his body but Valjean’s mouth, and there is nowhere for the sensation to go. It runs freely up his skin, and makes it break out in bumps. ‘More,’ he says, breathlessly, and it is not just because he likes it, but because he wants it done quickly.

‘Don’t want to hurt you,’ Valjean mutters, and nips gently at his ear. His tongue soothes the tiny sting away at once, and Javert tries to push down on the intrusion.

‘I will not break. Come along.’

Valjean is ever obliging. It hurts more. Javert squeezes his eyes shut, and sees himself in his own mind’s eye; on his back, his legs spread while another man probes him with his fingers. It is not an image he likes, because he has always hated being exposed, being vulnerable, and this is nothing if not that. But Valjean is breathing hard against his neck and his kisses remain deep, and hungry. They help. And he will not let this man down again. ‘More,’ he says, and the push is instant this time. He cries out, and his fingers claw at Valjean’s side. His eyes widen, and Valjean is looking right into them.

‘I will stop.’

‘You will _not_. Good God, promise me you will not.’

It does not feel bad. Valjean’s finger rests on the spot all men know about, but few utilise this way; every sensation flies back to meet that probe and swarm excitedly under its pressure. Javert hitches a breath, and pushes back, and is rewarded with a wash of pleasure he has never felt in his life before. ‘… _oh_.’

‘…it is good?’

‘For the love of God, help me. Do it more.’

Valjean’s expression is almost fearful, but he presses further. Javert drops his head back, and feels his cock surge as he makes another awful sound; another press, another wave that has him grabbing for Valjean’s shoulder. He can feel the edges of what it is going to be like when it is not fingers doing this, and the knowledge makes his legs tremble, his stomach turn to liquid. He thrusts his hips up to force Valjean to respond, which he does without meaning to, and the delicious pain of it is so good it brings tears to his eyes.

‘Javert, please. You look in agony.’

‘I am not.’ Valjean looks in agony. But his prick is still rigid, and there are droplets at the tip. Javert licks his dry lips, and rocks on the disobliging hand. ‘I promise you, I am not. I want more.’

‘I will not hurt you.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ He releases one of the man’s shoulders with difficulty, and wraps it around Valjean’s cock. He is not soft about it, because he cannot be. He wants it, and this is no time to be coy. ‘Give me this. Show your mercy. Please, Valjean.’

Valjean’s mouth has fallen open, and his eyes are almost closed. He breathes hard, his chest rising sharply. Javert watches with hungry eyes, and presses down until the man gives in, and starts moving the finger in him. His cry is instant and raw, the pleasure sharp through the jerk of pain, and not enough to drown it out. But Valjean does not stop this time; Javert gasps and keeps meeting the thrusts, his cheeks flaming red and sweat starting to break on his forehead. It is easier. It is better. The oil is doing its job; he looks down and everything is wet and slippery, and he is nothing but a wanton whore, writhing with a man’s fingers in him. Jesus. What is he doing? The shame makes him burn hotter still, and his legs spread when Valjean tentatively slips another digit inside. It is true debauchery now, there is no other way to see it. And he is starting to moan in earnest because his body is accepting it; no part of him is rejecting the act but his brain. It is so good. It is horrible. Valjean is gasping above him, thrusting into the loose grip he still has on his cock. But he is watching him back, and though he thought he wanted it, was sure he wanted to watch the man’s face through this, he finds it is putting him off. It is one thing to watch. It is another to be seen in return, and in a state such as this!? It is distracting.

‘Let me turn.’

‘You do not want-?’

‘I am ready. But I would prefer to face away.’

‘Yes, yes. Any way you like.’

The fingers leave him in slippery silence. He does not give himself time to think. He rolls to his stomach, and spreads his knees again. It is without doubt the most shameful thing he has ever done, and he can only imagine what Valjean must think of him. Maybe even now his face his twisting in disgust. He looks back, only to see the man descending on him. Wet, slack lips suck at his shoulder. Hands slide down his ribs, his hips and pull them up a little. His knees brace on the bed almost on their own, and Valjean is pulling his backside towards…oh yes, towards…Javert tenses again, and cries out, pushing his face into the pillow. There is no mistaking that thickness slipping between his thighs. It runs over his balls, and along his own length; he gets to his elbows and looks down; his hips buck at the sight of the shaft pressed against his own.

‘We could do it this way if you prefer,’ he hears, and shakes his head at once.

‘No. Take me.’

‘You are-?‘

‘ _Yes_ , Valjean.’

He will lose his nerve if it is not done soon. Jean Valjean is about to have him. He cannot think about it. His chest is tight. It hurts. His cock is tight; it hurts too, and if he does not get relief soon, he will scream. Nothing else is said. One hand disappears from his hip. He looks straight forward, panting to calm himself, and focuses on the iron bedframe. Should he hold on to it? Should he…

 

There is a tight noise from behind him.

 

His body is trembling stone. His mouth opens wide and freezes; his fingers scrabble for purchase in the sheets. His back bows until he thinks it might snap, his legs spread as wide as they can. His cock brushes the sheets, and jerks hard; if there was a hand on it, if it did not hurt so damn much, it might be over. But he cannot think of release, only the excruciating bliss of being breached, and stretched and _filled_ in a way he never has before. He squeezes his eyes shut, and forces himself to heave a ragged breath. It makes his trembling backside ease, just a little; Valjean moans like an injured animal, and presses on. When he stops, Javert cannot breathe. When he pulls back to gain purchase, he lets out a sobbing cry, and a hand comes to rest on his back. ‘Shall I stop?’

‘ _No_.’

The hand strokes. His back arches towards it like a cat. In doing so, Valjean slips an inch deeper and Javert cries out, and jerks to meet it. There, _there_. A lightning bolt through his body. He cannot breathe, or see. He smells sweat, and oil, and fear. Valjean is moaning, and his hands are too tight on his hips. He presses back. He takes more. He is full, and there is still more. He cannot hold the sheets, and grips the bed frame instead. Valjean puts a hand on his scrotum, squeezes gently, and holds him there while he writhes, and jerks his head back, and takes the full length of the man.

A moment of stillness. His chest will not unlock, and he cannot stop shaking. Every breath hurts, and he feels like he is split in half. But under the pain, there is a small, throbbing ball of promises to come, and every noise Valjean makes causes it to grow. The hand on his back strokes faster, and through his blindness, he can feel the desperation of the man inside him. Every touch is raw, and makes his skin sing in bliss. He is being petted like a dog, and it is the only thing anchoring him to the world.

‘Move,’ he says, through cracked lips. Valjean moves. He trembles, and opens his mouth but no sound comes out. He thrusts back to meet him, and something explodes inside. With a weak cry, he collapses to the bed. And thank God for mercy, because Valjean comes with him. For the first time in his life, there is another body pressed to his. It is overwhelming in the only way that matters; he pushes his back into that chest as if his life depends on it; Valjean’s cheek presses to his temple; his arm wraps tight around his front.

‘All right?’

‘Don’t let go.’ It is an open plea. Valjean’s hips jerk in response, he can tell. He shudders, and tries to make every part of his skin fit under Valjean’s body. ‘Don’t let go.’

‘I will not. I promise.’

He cannot bear how good it is. The pain is going away, and he does not miss it. He holds himself up only barely; at some point, he feels he should help with the act of fucking, and tries to reach between his legs. Valjean releases him only long enough to bat it away. ‘I will do it. Let me.’ Javert gasps again, and nearly loses his hold on the bed. Valjean thrusts hard enough to push him forward; he grips and does not let go. Their skin slides together, and of all the pleasure being pushed into his centre, it is this that makes his cock scream for release. Valjean is so close they might be the same person; he has no conscious idea of where he ends and the other begins. There are teeth in his neck and lips sucking his throat, he is wet all over but nowhere more than from the rhythmic groans being poured into his ear; his name being repeated like a mantra to God. It is getting faster, he realises. Everything is getting faster. Valjean’s hips, his breath, his moans. And harder, oh God. It hits him all at once; he is going to make this man release. He lets out a desperate cry, and the ache of his prick starts to rear up through him. He thrusts back, and Valjean cries out too.

‘Javert, please. I cannot stop.’

‘Do not. Finish. I want to feel it.’

It hurts again then, a little. It is rough, and deep, and every frantic thrust adds a sting to the rush of agonising heaven. He holds himself still until Valjean goes rigid, and pushes himself to completion; one glance back, and he wants his world to end. He can only see a part of his face, but it is everything he hoped. Desperate, and lost, and a strained happiness he hopes no one else will ever bring.

His head drops when Valjean’s does. He is almost too weak to try and find his own end, but he knows he will not be left wanting. The arms around him do not let go even once, and then suddenly he is being lifted, gently pulled back up to his knees, their bodies still pressed together. He allows it because he cannot resist, and only moans when Valjean touches his prick. It is almost too sensitive to be good.

‘May I watch?’

He nods. He presses himself down, so as not to lose the remaining hardness inside. He hears a quiet moan of satisfaction, and then fingers play loosely over him. It is gentle, in the end. His eyes close, and he lets himself fall. The final tension is nothing compared to leaning on this man; he only gasps quietly, and feels everything tense while Valjean breathes life into his ear. ‘Look,’ he hears. He looks. He has spent, is still spending, white lines on his stomach and falling over Valjean’s dripping fist. His head falls back. It is done. It is completion in a way he never felt until now.

 

*

 

Later, he lies in the dark. It will be morning soon. He is drowsy, and exhausted. Everything burns; a pleasurable heat that will not be bad until he tries to move. It is well; he has no intention of moving. He lies with Valjean wrapped around him, every available contact of skin pressed together.

The old Javert is gone, then. There is no pedestal left. He is one of the beasts, making noises in the filthy dark.

Valjean kisses his ear.

‘Are you glad you came?’

Javert smiles, and presses the hand splayed on his chest.

‘More than I can say, Valjean.’

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm mostly apologetic about the sappy ending, tbh.)


End file.
